Iodine
by What 1987
Summary: In this Irene is 'the woman'and Holmes is 'the man'. Everything is iodine. Porn and plot with the most poetic prose I'll ever use because I don't have a poetic mind. Poetry for the woman.


I pictured a younger Irene and a much younger Holmes.

_The song is Iodine by Leonard Cohen. _I know I haven't finished posting what was officially my last fic, but I will.

* * *

I needed you, I knew I was in danger  
of losing what I used to think was mine  
You let me love you till I was a failure

You let me love you till I was a failure  
Your beauty on my bruise like iodine

Holmes was crossing the Vauxhall Bridge, walking along its right edge on his way to the Millbank Penitentiary.

The sky was cloudy, only except some sparse rays of glaring shrill yellow from the sun, with a modicum of olive green, hit the water of the river in two spots… here, and there; another fell right in the middle of the penitentiary, as if God wanted to point at it for some reason, one that only the illuminated ones would understand; if there was an illuminated that was Holmes though, and it meant nothing to him.

There was also strong wind, blowing across London towards the northeast; therefor the right bottom corner of his black coat didn't drop but lifted slightly, his black hat remaining in place because the hat maker was an artist and he made them to fit perfectly in all the gentleman's differently shaped heads; they only had to be the same size, the hat adjusted to them, brushing their hair, Holmes's soft hair, as if his head was model; which it was by the way. One would think perfection does not exist, but sometimes, only sometimes, heads have regular shapes, vacant of any odd protuberances; and hair is texturized as if meant to be touched by all, by delicate fingers, by the light air, by elegant hats, by the white shit of birds. This leaves room to speculation… was Holmes born by mandate with a perfect head as a projection of his perfect mind?, so that all other humans would suspect of this last quality without knowing why, and they could make use of it…

He turned his perfect head right and not that far away, on the Lambeth Bridge, he saw the silhouettes of two people going in contrary ways.

The one on the left (the edge closer to him) caught his attention; the detonator being the pompous blue of the dress's fabric, the fact that it was big and bright despite the apparent absence of light, the heavy dark gray of the atmosphere (the other silhouette was a man, and a man's attire can never compete in flash with that of a woman); but what retained his stare was the snow white of the skin, and the light brown curly hair, and it had _her _height, and _her_ type of body…

Then he was off the bridge and she was out of sight behind the vessels at the Vauxhall wharf, and those at the Baltic, and the Timber one…

Holmes was required that day to walk by almost all of the imperfect pentagons of the structure even twice; Lestrade was busy and enjoying having Holmes walk behind him like a dog while he spoke of the legal unraveling of their mutual cases, digressed sometimes too to talk about his recent worries, accomplishments and failures.

They were walking by one hall outside the gates of the visiting room for the second time when he saw _her_ again, speaking with a man he didn't know. It seemed she laughed too much; she was laughing and the man's face wasn't even amused. Holmes suspected she was making fun of him; he too was being transported to Australia, like most criminals there.

A smile in a woman's face is an enigmatic phenomena, that is, a miracle devoid from all religious connotation... except that one of the Virgin; but if the Virgin is a religious symbol it is too because it appeals to the sexuality of the man… Nothing has been known to be sacred and incorruptible in this world other than the sexuality of a man. Naturally then, her smile reined his senses. He noticed the sleek whiteness of her teeth. They were big and had certain irregularities, but wouldn't that just add to the pleasure of her bite? Her laughter was clearly coming from the tremor of her lungs, his trained ear could determine: it was her breath… her breath surely acquired other tonalities. The bell of her laughter was pure, he could distinguish in it some of her flat talking and that her high-pitched singing voice would get directly to his nervous core, like violins. The lips that barely intervened in any of it were thick even without lipstick (the color of flesh had always seemed more appealing to him); this meant they had potential to disturb. That laughter was sincere; it wasn't the voice of _the woman_, but the voice of the woman that he wanted. All of this it seemed he was noticing for the first time, just because he didn't remember he had noticed it the last time too.

He wasn't thinking of her when he continued following Lestrade because she was just a ghost; a beautiful woman whose beauty would always astound him, the way he wouldn't admit to anyone but himself that some sunsets astounded him, and the happiness of his irregulars when he paid them much more than would be sensible for doing quite nothing; and as had the cries of his best friend's newly born, life from his seed to go on without them. Holmes was moved by the beauty of _the woman_ who had dated the king of Bohemia but wasn't involved with it, the way Watson's son wasn't his.

- "I'll say Lestrade, you prattle on. Let's please keep it brief and specific, hein?"

- "You're always so… to the point Mr. Holmes, it would serve you right to listen once in a while."

- "No."

* * *

Now she was walking behind him to the exit and she recognized his back, as one does family and close friends. She was happy to see him. Then again Irene was happy to see too many people; she had a generalized love for humanity because she was gregarious and loud and in time everyone used to love her; so she returned them handfuls of abuses and sympathies in exchange, as it was her whim, and she never got confronted.

– "Behold the great detective!" she called out, then properly addressed him: - "Mr. Holmes"

If Holmes had been irrational in an iota he would have believed this event fell upon him by destiny; because he had desired it more than he had been aware of, and he had made nothing for it to happen, he had ignored she was walking at his back, and they had no practical reason to address each other.

He turned on his heel and interpreted the warm happy smile on her face more seriously than he should have; Irene was happy to see him not because of him, but because she knew the kind of receiving that she would have.

- "You don't remember me?" No time to answer. – "Please allow me to introduce myself officially: Miss Irene Adler." She kept her head high, her neck long, her lips and unfinished "o", her eyes making appraisal of his face, and like always she was flirting quite without planning it: 'Miss. I'm single Mr. Holmes'.

Holmes smiled reluctantly, his mouth closed, the gesture dry but polite; he took her hand and kissed it as it was customary. – "Miss Adler, what a pleasure."

His face had her approval; she too didn't remember she had also approved it before. - "I hope the king of Bohemia hasn't considered you didn't do your job; after all you were very clever and it wasn't your fault that I realized my own mistake in time to run away." 'Do you remember the way I tricked you Mr. Holmes? Am I not a wonder?'

- "No." He smiled again his reluctant smile. Holmes's smiles almost always seemed reluctant. No one understood that he ought to be dry for survival, because he was sensitive to the great truths of the world so it was impossible for him to remain impassive before them, if not in emotion at least in action. Jesus should have been dry. And beauty is a great truth, it needs no explanation as it is good in essence; it is no wonder that it is the only value that has never been turned upside down, on the contrary: beauty is there to make everything uprise. – "In fact he was very grateful, or… at least relieved enough not to hold it against me."

The conversation developed surrealistically. Indeed it was almost surrealistic that later, with the sun having set, he was walking her to her home, her hand on his arm… Holmes walking a woman with her hand on his arm. Irene's home was going to be a room at the hotel The Grand for the next two months, she said.

Holmes smiled at her at last not reluctantly, but very satisfied. She was supposed to have tea with old friends next day and she didn't feel like it, she felt like going to the theater instead, would he be as kind as to not let her go alone? If she hadn't asked first like the enterprising woman that she was, Holmes would have taken a shot in the dark.

He was at first very candidly jubilant; walking by the streets of London with his hands deep in his coat's pockets with intermittent smirks while he remembered his afternoon, distracted and with a male pride sailor's gait, a sway of shoulders here and there.

In 221b Baker Street however he was caged again, chemical dishes all around; it was as if the haphazard perils lying all across the floor had a certain connection with those dangers Jesus should have been smart enough to fathom. Holmes could feel himself skidding.

He rushed to the window to open it and breath pure air again; 'he was paranoiac', he decided, Irene's beauty was nothing near to a curse.

* * *

He took her to the theater, he took her to a coffee parlor, at her request they admired the view from the Waterloo Bridge. He took her everywhere considered a good place to visit over the next weeks. They even walked randomly by the London streets; she hardly ever stopped smiling and had she not been holding his arm many men would have wishfully figured she was smiling at them; her pretty playful head was the reason they all glared at him, and he glared back, because he knew all of them were having the same thoughts than him.

And she told him all about her, because Irene lacked scars, resistant and cold like duplex steel, nothing corroded her. She spoke of her past with expressive gestures but no feeling; and of her expectations and long term desires as if they had motivations that went deep, as if she had always had them, but they were like all to her, passing whims.

Her conversation was stimulating and her company the first he didn't want to shun, and her looks… well…

Holmes fell in love with her, hopelessly so. One could say Holmes was obsessive; he was first obsessed with his ego, then crime added to the list, and it all mixed with intellect… Then along came _her_ and all his priorities shifted: she was first and only, and all the rest vanished, 'Holmes you're a fool' he sentenced himself, insignificant became everything other than love, emotion and concept he had so despised before.

Since Holmes had begun loving her he wasn't taking cases, he wasn't learning, as far as he was concerned the world didn't need him to come up with any inventions, his solitary rooms were boring and in them sleep was welcome.

He knew he was defeated during one particular conversation:

- "I've traveled all around Europe" Irene was saying with endearing charming pride – "all through my own means. Sometimes they weren't much. There was a time when all my friends knew they could find me in an apparently abandoned boat in the Seine, that bunch of cold wood and rusty metal was my home; except it wasn't because it was only apparently abandoned." Holmes began chuckling then as Irene smiled. - "When the owner came back I was ready to hoist the sails and float to the end of the city where I had business." Holmes laughed more. – "Oh dear! I guess I'm grateful for being a woman… it has saved me many thrashings I rightfully deserved. He was even as merciful as to let me collect my things instead of throwing them to the river as it was his first intention." They laughed more.

- "Now I plan to know America. It is my guess that everything is still more rudimentary down there. I'm sure I'm wrong but I want to believe South America is wild." And then she said with both of them knowing she was saying it lightly, not that serious at all. – "You should come with me. You're wild enough."

But Holmes surprised himself thinking absurdly that he actually would leave everything behind and would.

That thought was the red flag of his surrendering (red instead of white because it was an alarm); but many kisses had been shared already before, his heart already swelled at the thought of her. She was _the woman_ of the exquisite cherry flavored lips, _his_ woman.

Only three days after they had properly met at the Penitentiary, the romance was officially ongoing with their first kiss.

It was when they were sitting in one of the steps beneath the Albert Memorial.

Her sincerity and openness made Holmes say more than he would have ever liked to, as if he was in confession; he too told her everything. He had talked about school, about his "career", about cases, about Watson, about boxing, about experiments.

In that step he was telling her, as behind the tire-gray clouds and so almost unnoticeable, the sun slanted by their left:

- "I kept your picture… I was stunned by your beauty; by your intelligence too of course but a picture wouldn't be a reminder of that."

- "Was?"

- "Am. You know you're beautiful, you don't need anyone to tell you that."

They continued talking of much weightless subjects and at one moment she took his hand. Of course Irene would be the one to start everything, she was daring and light, not the dense impractically gifted mess that he was. In a flash he seemed so pleased by this that only four other exchanges of words went by before she called: - "Holmes." Because Holmes was looking at the green foliage of the trees in those gardens and she needed him to look at her.

Her bright eyes were on his, twinkling with content expectancy. Instinctively he began analyzing them but no rational conclusions came fast enough when she inclined a bit towards him; her face closer to his, stooped over her right shoulder, he stared raptly all her features and the sensuality of it, his lips in a very small relaxed gape. He began breathing faster than he should have, though quietly, and he closed his eyes as she touched his lips with her own. He felt improper tickles in the low of his stomach and groin, his lungs contracted; he corresponded by kissing her gently, like the gentleman that he was.

Since then they used to kiss chastely. Holmes held her in his arms whenever she wanted him to, she had only to cross her arms in front of her and press herself to his chest. He even bought her flowers from all those street flower vendors, as often as she eyed them, more often than that, even when she didn't want them.

He dreamed of her every day, loving and lascivious dreams interweaving in a disastrous undistinguishable pattern.

I asked you if a man could be forgiven  
And though I failed at love, was this a crime?

You said don't worry, don't worry darling  
You said, Don't worry, don't you worry darling  
There are many ways a man can serve his time

Irene stayed in London more time, for him, she said; and she snapped her fingers and he was there. All that time spent with her chained him irreparably. When a day without her immediately sent his pupils over his cocaine, because he wanted his daily thrill, it all came back to him, all that he was before her, and in one last attempt at self-preservation he tried to distance himself. He didn't tell her where he lived even when everyone in London knew; he refused taking her to meet Mrs. Hudson as she so many times petulantly insisted. She insisted because even though Holmes had made the truthful point that she didn't want to meet Mrs. Hudson, he was refusing her something and that didn't adjust to Irene's previous experiences.

When he took on a case and he wasn't there to answer one of her telegrams, to go running to The Grand to pick her up and escort her to her second cousin's, upon his return to Baker Street she was waiting for him in the sitting room and threw a tantrum proper of a five year old.

Holmes had lost his head to his heart and followed her by the streets all the way to The Grand, gallantly apologizing; as she paced in her quick short strides in heels, like _the pretty woman_ that she was, sulking. The old pairs they crossed were fools and smiled at the "sweet" scene.

- "Please Irene, please. I haven't worked since I met you."

- "Go back to your work then, and let me be."

- "This is ludicrous. I'm working so that I can buy you all you want." He wasn't really, but this was one of those times when he thought proper to lie; he would say anything to have her forgive him for doing nothing wrong and he supposed even Irene liked it when he made her presents, which was all the time. – "I know, I know, you can buy it yourself. Is it wrong anyway to want to give you everything? All that I have is yours. And at the moment I have nothing."

– "You should have at least told me; you knew I could need you."

By many blocks they walked quietly; Holmes always behind her, at a loss of words, because in what other way could he express a believable repentance which he didn't have?

So they were outside the closed door of her room and it seemed she was giving her the cold shoulder; and she was about to disappear inside. He would try one last time that day: - "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. How can I have you forgive me?"

- "You admit you are wrong?"

- "Yes!" Holmes had never wanted to deny it; what was the use in being right in such a futile fight?; he wanted to grasp her face and force his tongue into her mouth; the sooner the quarrel ended the better.

Irene's mouth twisted, as if she wanted to avoid a smile from appearing. She opened the door to her bedroom, went in silently and Holmes understood he was supposed to follow as he had been doing since Baker Street.

She turned around to face him and walked backwards, inclining her head right she gave him a slack grin. Holmes stood there paralyzed, his heart beginning to thump as if it would explode at some point, from an excessive housed influx of blood.

She sat on the bed and began undoing her hair. It was loose over her chest and her back, sleek locks that spoke of the curves of her body. To make it unbearable she shook it, kneaded it near her skull, so that it would be suggestively disheveled. – "Well Mr. Holmes, do you plan to just stand there?"

Holmes took a hesitant step forward. He was improbably confused; wasn't she inexorably cross with him just a second ago? He inclined his head with a confused grimace on his face, that way telling her of his turmoil.

And she found that so cute that well in spite of her will to make him suffer she smiled and rolled her eyes – "O for God's sake!" Eased him by taking off her shoes and barefoot striding to him, to stamp her hands on the back of his head and kiss him more passionately than she ever had.

Holmes first grabbed her elbows awkwardly, then slid his hands to her shoulder blades, then to surround her small waist, and he had an erection. Irene made men have instant erections and that made her very proud of herself.

His nose was wheezing as he kissed her; horribly filthy images thronged into his head in anticipation; he fought to stop them, center on her small waist and the wet softness of her mouth, and her tiny hands on his perfect head.

Irene was experienced and she knew Holmes was a gentleman. She didn't want that, she wanted Holmes to go insane with lust, she wanted Holmes to ravish her, she wanted to please him to such heights that he would be straying when deprived from her voluptuous company… she wanted to be the woman of his life. She looked at him with heavy eyelids because she was excited too. – "I want you to do what you feel like darling. No unnecessary consideration. At this moment I'm entirely yours." O!... his girlfriend was seductive… that did send his mind reeling.

So he took off her dress, undid the strings from her corset and pulled her camisole down, it falling over the yet un-removed petticoats; his hands provided a long stroke down her buttocks over the white fabric of them, as he began to kiss her throat and then her breast and she moaned softly. He slid her drawers down. On the bed fingering her vagina as the petticoats were at last about to be off her body, kissing her.

He was fully dressed, and fully hard, and completely devoted.

When naked she adored lying there, watching him undress, which he did relaxed and unceremoniously, with a lazy crooked smirk because he had realized how rousing she was finding it. To Irene Holmes's body was close to those unrealistic ones of Greek marble statues; those had muscles where they shouldn't, without those impossible features what was left was Holmes, carved in sandstone.

He penetrated her sweetly, holding her, sheltering her body with his, caressing her cheek and temple, and lips once and again, kissing her once and again, sometimes sliding his hand over her breasts, and along her leg, tracing her contours flatteringly.

Irene gaped and showed her teeth, with her eyes closed scowled, bit Holmes's thumb, whimpered; as much as Holmes wanted to look at her in such circumstances he had to close his eyes too, gaping too and swaying with the rhythm of his own gasps. Irene almost shouted and he forgot where he was, he could have been in a cloud, that's how he felt as he was driving them both to climax.

Her completion whine resembled a child's mew of discomfort; Holmes barely managed to lay the palm of his hand on the side of her head, trying to give her reassurance that she didn't need, as he brought exhaustion to himself and in gasps ejaculated, lost in his bubble of pleasure.

Let's please make a cut to Adler's point of view: Holmes came in an inhale and his tongue rested suspended by the middle of his open mouth, in between skin and stubble, eyelids covering his eyes because he didn't need these to have sensations, long eyelashes like a shadow, bones of his jaw like wire…

The tenderness he felt towards her after that wouldn't have parallel. Irene had gotten what she wanted. He didn't know what to do to express what he felt for her, the words "I love you" fell short in the task, they both knew they weren't to be married, to ask would have been more foolish than reciting her verses in which the moon and the stars would be involved.

So instead she invited her enter his rooms. Showed her some of his – what he deemed – more fascinating chemical experiments, not minding about the way she rolled her eyes at his open fascination. Irene just wanted to annoy him and he knew it, she frankly found the steps to create those compounds spellbinding, the way he moved his hands to pour the liquids and hold the crystal bewitching.

The notes he enthusiastically ripped from his violin before her, to awake her emotions in pleasant ways were heavenly, despite which her face remained unexpressive, her eyes withered.

No matter what he did she would still try him by the acid test, as if the question "do you love me?" was still unanswered.

She made him pay for loving her more than anyone ever could, but still not enough for her supercilious self.

One day, out of the blue, just to see him cry she announced she was leaving him; she had exonerated him for doing many right things, but she would never absolve him from the fault of not having cried.

He did beg. – "Don't leave me. Why? What have I done wrong?"

"Nothing" was the problem and the answer. She just wanted him to suffer with female viciousness.

He gripped hold of her skirts, this he did with rage. – "You're always so cruel to me", he murmured – "Is there somebody else? Tell me at least that you have a motive to abandon me with such malice."

Irene went on with her libertine life before his spying eyes; she even helped him, by sending him photos of all the mischievous things she did without him.

You covered up that place I could not master  
It wasn't dark enough to shut my eyes  
So I was with you, O sweet compassion  
Yes I was with you, O sweet compassion

Compassion with the sting of iodine

Holmes had a downfall into the deepest pit he had thus far, his tendency to constant depression was never so atrocious to him as with this last event.

He did nothing but pluck the strings of his violin, his mien lifeless and pale as if it had been applied white foundation, the curtains drawn and his eyes accustomed to the dark like a cat's.

Watson had pulled the curtains open and he hadn't even had the energy to growl, he had closed his eyes preventing it and hadn't answered any of Watson's incessant questioning; he had ripped the "bloody!" violin from him, and Holmes's only reaction had been dropping his arms as if from a ragdoll, limp over his legs. Lestrade had come and admitted he was the pillar that kept Scotland Yard standing. Lestrade was mundane folk and was the only one to plumb instantly that the problem was a woman; 'there's always a woman', he wisely prescribed. – "Courage Mr. Holmes!" 'No', Holmes thought, 'this isn't time to be courageous', not when he was being reminded of his mum and his security blanket. - " I'm sure she was an extraordinary woman to have this effect on a man of your mettle. I'll be damned if she doesn't come back within a few days crying and begging for your forgiveness; and if she doesn't it's all the same; there are plenty fish in the sea Mr. Holmes! And you're a handsome man! My cousin in fact has secretly kept a strong predilection for you; she's an adorable lady, it's not just me to say so, pretty to a fault, like the bud of a rose. We could arrange a meeting." When not even this cheered him up Lestrade sighed and gave up, he stood up reiterating his wish that he recovered and how much he was needed for the justice machinery to keep working. Holmes hadn't said anything nor given sign of life apart from the rise of his chest when he inhaled and his natural blinking.

He read the letters of cases that desperate civilians and detectives wanted him to bring a resolution to, some were interesting, but didn't reply denying them help nor accepting any. Mrs. Hudson asked for the rent and since Holmes had no cash he quietly handed her a diamond; generous retribution from a past successful investigation; almost crying when he did because otherwise he would have given it to Irene, in a sophisticatedly designed white gold necklace.

Mrs. Hudson was so scandalized by the diamond payment that she decided to take the matter into her own hands. Cleaning she found the indecent pictures, the woman in them corresponded to the one in a more decent one that she found in his drawer, the name Irene Adler behind it; some objects on the ground had "The Grand" inscription on them. Mrs. Hudson understood this woman was a thief and had been in Baker Street without her knowing; Holmes would never steal anything, not even from hotels. Mrs. Hudson had told him and Watson when they had taken the rooms with a conditioning index finger: - "But please, do not bring any ladies, this must remain a respectable home"; so it only made sense that he had concealed her entrance.

She went to The Grand and stood before the counter, counter in marble and touches of pink and golden. She asked for Irene Adler from Mrs. Hudson. Irene was curious and gratified by the visit and she allowed them to give her her room's number.

No one had ever looked down on her with quite so much contempt; it intensified when the good woman caught a glimpse of one of Holmes's jackets draped on the bedpost. (Irene used to render herself bare, lay on the bed and cover herself with the jacket, slither her limbs indolently over the mattress, feeling the silk of the blankets caress her skin and the rougher quality of his jacket, from which she sniffed his scent profoundly, "mmmh" emitted delighting in his fragrance; her Parisian perfume could have seemed from her entirely partial valuation sickening by contrast.)

- "Do come in!" Irene grinned more ample than she had planned, as a snubbing retort in the face of Mrs. Hudson's disdain.

Mrs. Hudson would be brief. – "Mr. Holmes is in some sort of a hunger strike."

- "A hunger strike?" Irene raised her left eyebrow in theatrical surprise and pity.

- "He does nothing. I don't know if you know this, but for someone… of your kind, I doubt it will be outrageous..: He used to use cocaine, from time to time when he felt down, not I nor any of his friends approved of it; but now I think it is incommensurably worrying that he doesn't even do that. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson has diagnosed, is prone to depression, there is no cure; but he has proven to be able to endure his condition. Now however he is not eating, he is not taking cases, and you keep sending him these… these pictures. I don't come to ask you to go back to him, I shall have to ask you however to at least stop hurting him. That's all I have to say. Good morning Miss Adler."

Irene thought of her Holmes and pouted; 'Poor poor Sherlock'; she was really very pleased.

She sneaked into the sitting room by the window, with man's clothing and useful hiking skills. Opened the door to his bedroom. Gingerly spoke – "Holmes?"

There was a crashing of things. – "Irene? Oh dear lord, I'm beginning to have auditory hallucinations."

She smiled choking a chuckle. – "Holmes come out. I'm here, see for yourself."

What came out crawling from a corner was chaos impersonated. – "Are you here to give me personal home delivery of the images of your latest adventures?... Dressed as a man. Will you give me a beating or something?" He thought he might stand up but then desisted, remaining in a proposal posture, turned his head offering his cheek. – "Go ahead. Finish what you started."

- "Enough with the drama detective. I come to return the diamond I stole from Mrs. Hudson, I was feeling quite guilty, because either she would feel in duty to give you free lodging or you'd be left homeless. Now the archaic rules of that woman!; you think I would climb to your domains with a huge skirt?, no, pants are comfortable. I'm also here to see you, she said you were disastrous and well, I thought poor detective."

- "You came to mock me then. I shall have you know Adler, that I have bank savings, I just didn't want to go to the bank." He dropped himself to the nearest support, sitting on the floor with his back on the mattress.

- "I love you Sherlock." She wasn't lying; unfortunately she had many and varied diversions, and even when she loved Holmes the most she would never get depressed; she preferred doing without him than reducing herself to his state; in fact, she would never be comfortable with her love for him until she had successfully smothered it and Holmes had practically bitten the dust.

He narrowed his eyes resentful, 'pour iodine on the wound why don't you?' he thought, showed his eyeteeth. – "Quit it, will you?"

- "It's true!"

- "And…?"

- "And nothing. Come to The Grand with me, your room smells like cheese."

- "It smells like sulphur" he murmured nonsensically – "… or rotten eggs for you my illiterate friend, eggs are high on sulphur, and they expel hydrogen sulfide. Cheese… is similar to humidity, cheese is created with bacteria and bacteria grow in humidity, in all sorts of conditions too but."

- "Are you coming or not?"

- "No."

- "No? !"

- " You will kick me out in the morning."

- "No Sherlock, I'll be nice."

- "I don't want your pity."

She licked her plump lips and then these sketched an impish smirk. - "Oh but I want your penis."

- "No."

- "No?"

- "No."

She glided over to him, his hunger vision making of her a thin vase of limpid wavy water.

She knelt by his side and kissed his cheek. He reacted too late in retiring his face.

– "Do you remember…" Her whispers were something like acute notes from a far-off guitar. – "The way my nipples used to harden and stand, when you put your wanton mouth on them? You nibbled them as if you were suckling, and you almost made me want to produce breast milk" Holmes groaned deep in his throat, the sound almost suffocated but not completely. His Adam's apple shifted as he swallowed – "that you would feed of it, so that you would come back to them more often than you did, at least three times a day." He closed his eyes, kept resenting her with deep hatred. – "The Grand, Sherlock. It's time that we both lay there again."

- "No."

She imposed her mouth on his. Passive he let her kiss him, her taste being a bittersweet divine gift; he didn't have will enough to reject her.

- "You're not making any sense Irene." He whispered, barely audibly, small like he felt.

She answered, at last something that he understood… At last he had a grasp of what she meant them to be. – "I want what I want when I want it."

…

- "I'm being generous to allow you some concessions Mr. Holmes. I do feel like giving you something, in return for all the sweetness with which you lavish me."

….

- "Now will you come or not?... Here it smells like cheese."

Your saintly kisses reeked of iodine  
Your fragrance with a fume of iodine

There wasn't much to discuss. Sadness would not abandon him and he barely bowed his head but she took his soft cheek, lifting it that inch again and turning it to hers, giving him another of her delicious kisses.

It all was distant and cutting and yet was more consoling than all those past void days; and he indulged himself in kissing her. Pressing her lower lip strongly between his would be his last plea, he achieved nothing by it but marking her with a momentary bruise, that would fade away unlike his own.

He put his hand on the back of her neck, let his tongue roam her mouth again, ecstasy overtaking him now painfully.

He didn't want to go to her room because he preferred his cheese than her perfume, sod the perfume!, she didn't need it, her skin was perfume, distil a patch of it; he didn't want to remember the fragrance of her skin.

But no she wouldn't have it, she left his mouth when standing up and made him moan very softly. She offered him her hand and rolled her eyes. – "Come on darling! your bed isn't plush like mine, I told you I like luxury."

He took her hand and let her pretend she hauled him up. Stuck to her he gave her again a reluctant smile. And in the cab they kissed wildly, with the cold and the rattle of the horses it felt as if either had picked up a whore.

And pity in the room like iodine  
Your sister fingers burned like iodine  
And all my wanton lust was iodine

He closed his eyes as she rubbed his crotch over his trousers when they entered the room, pulling and stumbling and jostling to the bed. He took hold of her thighs and lifted her, making her fall back on the bed in time her legs parted around him. 'If she wanted to be nothing to him but a whore, let her then be a whore.'

He practically ripped that male clothing off her; he also took off his own shirt in hastiness. Irene ran her fingers by his chest when it was uncovered, the muscles of his abdomen rising and falling fast, and he literally felt her fingers burnt over the sensitive area beneath his navel.

- "Damn you Irene!" he whispered, – "you know how much I love you!"

She thought she was being nice in return by opening that button, beneath which dipping her hand she would find pubic hair. He groaned deep when her hand circled his erection.

- "Do you want me to rub it Sherlock?"

It was a ridiculous question, since they were nothing it was dirty enough to be nasty. He kissed her to shut her up. She began rubbing his erection anyway and in action he didn't manage to find it as nasty as in saying. Her hand had dainty lines and soft skin.

She began pulling his pants down; he hurried to be naked, so that he could turn on his back and have her equally naked body collapse over him, so that all of his skin could feel her.

She was whimpering again, slithering against him, until she reincorporated and had her vagina moisten his length in an obscene give and take of her hips; Holmes gripped the bedpost, responded with a sensuous sway of his own. Her breasts wobbled with the nipples well pointy without the aid of his "suckling".

Holmes sat down and put a hand on her hip to make her tumble down with him on her side, hug her tightly and have her do the same with him; they didn't stop the wanton oscillation but added to it the desperate grasp of flesh; and this time they didn't follow the same direction but the contrary one, crashing and hardly unsticking.

He admitted to himself that he wanted to see her buttocks and so kissed whatever that he found of her, on his way to detach and make her turn on her stomach.

This would be the first time that he would fuck her from behind, like an animal because he refused to feel he was the one to protect her, ever again. He let himself release his load on her flawless back, as if staining it. He felt sick, it was both worse and better than cocaine.

- "I'm sorry", he mumbled against her ear; and she didn't know what he was apologizing for. – "I love you".

My masquerade of trust was iodine  
And everywhere the flare of iodine

They kept fucking in 'their room' at the Grand. He could not invite her out, she refused. Then she had done something wrong and finally told him she was leaving to America.

- "I have to run away from the police." She told him as she brushed her hair. – "Actually I think that from you too my dear." She smiled, even then, charmingly. – "Don't worry I'll come back and we'll have fun again."

- "Fine."

He didn't trust her to come back and didn't trust what she would do if she came back; he couldn't bring himself not to care so he was left all the same, with a sour copper taste in his palate as if he had eaten a load of pure iodine.

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_Millbank penitentiary did exist. Just by the way, all the places that I ever mention in my fics did exist at the time_**.**

_If you liked it or didn't like it please comment_**, **_I would like to know why._**  
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